


hands remember

by stoplight



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Akafuri Secret Santa 2014, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2855957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplight/pseuds/stoplight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akashi, a child born out of wedlock, learns to live alone in the attic in which secrets are locked away to be forgotten – until one day he doesn’t have to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hands remember

**Author's Note:**

> [akafuri secret santa 2014](http://akfrssgifts.tumblr.com/post/107104883211/hands-remember): belated merry christmas to juli ([nyappycookie](http://nyappycookie.tumblr.com)) - or, more aptly, belated happy new year! i apologize for the tardiness of this fic. nonetheless, i still hope you'll enjoy it (despite the errors)! ;u;
> 
> translated by whitleigh into vietnamese [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11448924/1/Hands-remember-Akafuri-fic-d%E1%BB%8Bch).

 

 

 

There is no sense of time in this world. If there is anything that exists, perhaps it is only this: a ruined circadian rhythm built on the sounds of mourning sparrows, or the clattering of half-filled plates on creaky wooden floors. It may very well be the silence that paints the windows black.

But Akashi knows none of this. He doesn’t mind. It’s safe to say that he doesn’t give a damn anymore.

He wonders when he stopped caring, and thinks that it really was a long time ago.

 

 

 

## hands remember;

 

 

 

 

 

 

Akashi is five when a stranger’s hand holds him like a long-lost kindred spirit would. He looks up and sees tired eyes bore into his own, and he takes it as a sign that he must keep moving, lest he wants to be scolded. He doesn’t really remember the color of the house they entered, how high the staircase they had to ascend was.

The first thing he does when he and the stranger reach the attic is cough. His mother always cleaned the house before, chasing the dust away; it’s astounding how this stranger could leave a room in his house unattended and forgotten.

“Seijuuro,” the man says, kneeling before him as if in penance. Akashi cocks his head to the side in curiosity and amazement. Never has someone other than his mother gotten his name right on the first attempt.

“Your mother is – will never come back,” he hears, and thinks that this stranger must be mistaken. His mother has always promised that she would come back for him, time and time again. The stranger’s voice becomes gravelly. Akashi does not ask questions; he does not want to disappoint by being impolite.

The man runs his fingers through his hair, troubled. “You will stay here – sometimes, I will come up and accompany you. But you must never come down. Do you…do you understand?”

Akashi doesn’t. Still, he nods in acknowledgement, as all children do when in misperception.

“Good,” the man straightens, audibly sighing in relief. He turns his back on Akashi, climbing down the ladder and taking all sources of noise – footsteps and ragged breaths – along with him. Soon after, the opening through which he disappears also ceases to exist. The sliver of illumination that passes through the murky window is not sufficient for Akashi to blink back the dancing dots behind his eyelids.

So Akashi waits for the lights to be turned on. For the man, someone, anyone – to come back for him.

 

It is a long time before the waiting halts. But even then, it really doesn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Akashi wakes up to the sound of kitchenware almost shattering.

 

He barely catches a glimpse of a hand – the stranger’s hand – reaching up to deposit a plate of steak and mashed potatoes on the cold floor. It is only then that Akashi realizes that he is starving, and he walks cautiously towards the plate.

Although the meal is not as warm as he thought it would be, it is inarguably the best he’s had in years; Mother always said that they could only afford to eat what they grow in their backyard. After a while, he doesn’t leave anything behind, too afraid to commit any wastage.

Looking around, Akashi muses – the attic isn’t such a bad place, save for the ubiquitous cobwebs and dust decorating the slanted walls with gray. He sees a clean tub on the corner, a small urinal, an abandoned piano near the window, and a mess of journals and hardbound books directly across him. He doesn’t know what time of the day it is but figures that he could take a bath, to scrub off the streaks of black across his skin without knowing where they came from.

Akashi sits in the water for what seems to be an hour. Some wounds on his arms sting but don’t bleed, and he tries to recall how he ever got them. He comes up blank.

Surprise washes over him when he discovers a set of clean clothes on the broken chair beside the tub. They’re a bit too big on him, but that’s okay – they’re made of wool, and if he were sold as a slave he’d still be much less expensive than his newly acquired clothing.

 

 

Nights pass and Akashi can’t decide if he likes playing the off-tune piano or reading dictionaries best. Anything to stop him from questioning what exactly he’s here for. He teaches himself to write in cursive, to be ambidextrous, to play, by ear, the lullaby that his mother used to sing. Only a day after he lost sight of his mother does he part ways with her voice, her smile, and the gift of companionship that she, at the very least, tried to provide him.

When Akashi craves human warmth, he presses his cheek to the wooden floor and listens to shuffles of feet and whispers of people that live beneath him. Most of the conversations are imagined, but some cause the prickling on his eyes.

He hears children laughing, heavy footfalls and lighter ones, and the dialogues of the family he wishes he had. Akashi’s evenings are spent looking at broken mirrors, at himself – and fabricating a photograph of the father that he never met. Perhaps they would look alike in some parts – does he have his father’s nose? His jaw?

On a winter morning he actually catches the kind stranger go up to the attic and place ironed clothes on the lone chair. Somehow, the man is more startled than he is; in his moment of astonishment Akashi trains his eyes on his face and murmurs, unsure, “Father?”

The man opens his mouth, visibly paling under what illumination the attic has. Akashi has sense enough, probably more sense than a mere child could ever have, to know that he has spoken the truth. “Father” says nothing to him, climbing down the ladder in haste.

 

Akashi is five when a stranger houses him in his attic.

 

Akashi is five when he learns that the world won’t ever be kind to him. So he thinks that he must return the favor, someday. In the meantime, he will have to be content with the knowledge that he was left behind before, and that he will never let it happen again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weeks turn to months and years – Akashi’s mind becomes fickle, remembering things which have never occurred in reality and forgetting those that matter. He cuts his own hair every four months, using a rusted pair of scissors and a cracked looking glass. On his birthdays he celebrates by opening the window and letting the ghost of blowing winds visit the attic. It’s the closest he can ever get to feeling something again.

It is his eleventh birthday today. By this time, the walls are getting too low for him; he has read all of the books piled on the floor, and there are some he can recite from memory alone. He composes songs without sheets and takes more time in the tub to dismiss his surroundings.

During midday he finds a blueberry cupcake and a journal on the floor. He’s determined not to throw both things away, so he picks up the cupcake and perches it on his bed. Hunger is the least of his present worries, and Akashi is more interested in the journal. It’s leather-bound with stitches of a flower whose name he doesn’t have an inkling of. He flips through the pages, noticing the dates on the headers.

For quite a while he laughs at the hilarity of it all and finally flings the journal across the dark room. He has no story to write, having tucked away his memories into a suitcase which he tossed into the nothingness long ago.

He stares at the open journal, heaving. The thesaurus offers him consolation when he looks through columns of synonyms for anger.

 

 

 

Akashi doesn’t realize that he has slept through the afternoon until he hears the ladder being pulled down. His father made a point to go unnoticed if he were to visit the attic, and certainly there would be no reason for him to change his ways now.

A dash of tousled brown hair greets him, and Akashi springs up, narrowly missing the aslope wall. He doesn’t let the bewilderment show in his eyes.

“Wha—“ the unfamiliar boy exclaims and points his index finger at Akashi. “What are you doing here?”

The boy is making too much noise. Akashi takes it upon himself to heave him up and tell him to swallow his words. When the boy finally makes it to the attic, sprawled across the dusty floor, Akashi pulls the ladder up and shuts the entrance close.

“Why are you in the  _attic_?” The boy spits out, incredulous. He has scrapes on both knees and his face is streaked with dirt. “Who lives in an attic, anyway?”

“Apparently, I do,” Akashi replies, frowning at his own voice. It’s ridiculous how he isn’t even accustomed to himself. “Who are you, and why did you come here?”

The boy shrugs the dust off of his sleeves and stands up, holding his hand out. “I’m Furihata Kouki. I was playing hide and seek with one of the butlers until I found this place.” He smiles, but heartbeats later his lips warp and he resumes his accusatory tone. “Wait, you still haven’t answered my question!”

“I,” Akashi pauses, thinking of a false name but coming up with none. The boy – Furihata – must not know anything about him, for he will endanger Akashi’s existence if other people were to find out that his father has an illegitimate child. “It’s none of your business. You mustn’t speak about this to anyone. Are we clear?”

Furihata’s eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. “Did you answer my question or was I just not listening attentively?”

“And don’t come back, ever again,” Akashi warns him, gripping his arms and making him turn the other way. “Forget that there is an attic, and that there is a boy who lives there.”

Sighing in exasperation, Furihata says, “Fine, fine.”

 

Furihata came as quickly as he went. Akashi figures that it’s for the best.

He picks the journal up, defeated, and starts to write.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The brunet, unfortunately, comes back. He’s earlier this time, and Akashi narrows his eyes at the intruder he’s acquainted with. “Didn’t I tell you to never, ever return?”

Furihata yelps; it seems that the fact that Akashi abides here slips away from his mind. “Why are you here?”

“I can’t leave,” Akashi says tersely, attending to a novel instead. He’s read it about fifty times already, but it’s worth using as a distraction. “However, you can. So leave.”

“Huh, I’ve never come across someone as rude as you,” Furihata comments, crossing his arms over his chest. He attempts to harden his expression, only coming up with a pout. “You’re even worse than the old hag who has an equally ugly dog. At least she asked for my name when we met.”

Akashi closes the book briefly, irked by the incessant yapping. “Furihata Kouki. Are you satisfied?”

A look of puzzlement crosses Furihata’s face. “…How did you know that?”

“You told me yesterday.” It is Akashi’s turn to be baffled. He sets his book down on the mattress and rises, suspecting. “You were playing hide and seek with the butler and found this place.”

Akashi doesn’t know why Furihata begins to cower. “This is my first time coming to this house,” Furihata mutters, shaking his head in disbelief. He cautiously backs away, nearly stumbling on a mess of linen. “I don’t know who you are, much less the butler you’re talking about.”

“This is not a time for jokes,” Akashi murmurs. The question written all over Furihata’s features tells him that Furihata doesn’t have this kind of humor.

“I’m not kidding,” Furihata holds his hands up in defense, his lips trembling. “I’m not, I promise.”

How peculiar.

Akashi lets out a breath, having partially understood the situation. He’s read about this before, in an anatomy book whose thickness didn’t faze him for even one second. The only intention that he had in browsing the chapter about the nervous system was to educate himself on ways that he could detach himself from his past.

“You don’t remember anything,” Akashi simply says, more to himself than to Furihata.

Furihata cocks his head to the side. “Now you’re the one who’s kidding.”

“No,” Akashi tells him, proceeding back to his bed. The first thing he feels is fascination; among other things, pity is the last. “You have something that’s called ‘anterograde amnesia’. You’ll never be able to make memories, because you keep on forgetting everything that has happened at the end of the day.”

“That,” Furihata inhales sharply, “is absurd. And you’re very, very weird.”

Akashi looks at him – truly looks at him – and continues speaking, now that his full interest has been piqued. “Come up here and hold your forearm out.”

Furihata opens his mouth in horror. “Are you going to cut it off? You’re not one of those cannibals, are you?”

“I’d never be as unsightly as those creatures,” Akashi scoffs. He fishes into a worn-out pencil case for a black marker, the one that he uses when he places tally marks of his days on the walls. There is no use in counting, now, because he can’t exactly fit any more years on the boundaries that enclose him.

Furihata bites the inside of his cheek and closes his eyes when he does hold his forearm out for Akashi. The latter steadies his wrist and begins to scrawl on Furihata’s skin.

“There,” Akashi finishes, conspicuously pleased with his work. Cracking one eye open first, Furihata catches a glimpse of the message on his limb. He brings it closer, tilting his head sideways to read it properly.

Akashi says, “Don’t wash it off later, and follow it when you come again tomorrow.”

“If you wanted me to come up here again, you just should’ve said so,” Furihata mumbles, thoroughly disconcerted by Akashi’s idea. “It’s not like I don’t already know where you are.”

“Tomorrow,” Akashi eyes him closely, “you won’t remember. None of this – this attic, this house – will have existed to you.”

Furihata stares at him, stupefied, until he erupts into a fit of giggles. In resignation, Akashi leans against the wall, too exhausted to argue against the distrusting boy. “You are  _all_  sorts of crazy. All of the kids I’ve played with like stories about knights and soldiers, but you…you like suspenseful and scary stuff.”

“If I really am going to forget about this tomorrow,” Furihata finally recovers from his episode of laughter, “then you can probably tell me your name.”

Akashi considers it for a moment. “Akashi Seijuuro.”

“Mm, Akashi.” Furihata places a finger below his chin. “How about I call you Sei? Tomorrow, if you’re telling the truth, you can refuse. Let’s test this theory of yours.”

“It’s not a theory; it’s a fact.” Akashi shows his disgust for the name, deeming it too informal for his liking. He doesn’t concede at first, but he ponders on it and thinks that Furihata is right. “I am telling the truth. And yes, you can call me that. Just this once.”

“Alright, Sei,” Furihata chirps happily, walking towards the folded staircase. “See? It sounds good.”

“It doesn’t,” Akashi replies with a wry smile.

Furihata’s tongue darts out. “Yes, it does. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. If you’re wrong, I’ll still come and annoy you.”

This time, Akashi raises his chin in a challenge. “I’m never wrong.”

Furihata’s chuckle is his goodbye, and when the brunet leaves silence in his wake, Akashi gathers his journal and an anatomy book from the corner on which they lie.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“It says here, ‘Sei’. Are you Sei?”

Furihata is sitting cross-legged on the floor with unhammered nails; he caresses the smudged ink on his skin and looks up at Akashi, demanding answers. “Are you a ghost? I don’t remember going up here. I didn’t even know that there was an attic in this house.”

He must have scribbled Akashi’s nickname before he went to bed. Gritting his teeth, Akashi prevents himself from berating the Furihata of yesterday. “I am not a ghost. Ghosts don’t exist. And yes, I am Sei, but I would prefer that you call me Akashi, since we haven’t covered formalities yet.”

“Akashi,” Furihata repeats, then perks up in recognition. “Akashi – they told me the Akashi family only had two children. Why are there three?”

This is the wrong day to tell his name. Panic fleets across Akashi’s vision, and his heart thrums to the sound of the rain pelting the window. Furihata still stares at him, wide-eyed and innocent of what he had just inquired about.

“Sei,” Akashi manages to utter, ragged voice as coarse as sand. “My name is Sei – I was only toying with you.”

“Oh,” Furihata blinks, and he immediately forgets the matter as he points to his forearm. “But first, tell me why I have your name on my arm, and why my own skin instructed me to ‘find the attic’.”

Akashi explains all over again, the memory of having done so crisp and fresh in his mind as a daisy. In the middle of showing Furihata some snippets about his condition, he comes to the conclusion that his enthrallment with the boy stems from envy. He wonders what starting on a clean slate feels like.

“Wow,” Furihata ends up saying, leaning back until he accidentally hits his head on the floor. Wincing, he continues, “Ouch. Well, that’s a very plausible story, enough to make me believe in you. But there’s not enough proof of yesterday, is there?”

Akashi’s feeble enthusiasm once again morphs into disappointment, but he’s experienced it more times than he could count and is thus able to hide it. “I suppose. But I’ve thought about it and found an alternative.”

He thrusts his journal, his first gift from the man he calls Father, into Furihata’s hands. “You’ll wake up everyday as an empty shell. Maybe writing entries about your life would help you get by, if remembrance is not a prospect.”

“Still,” Furihata presses, eyes flickering in uncertainty. “How would I know if they’re real?”

Akashi lends him the fountain pen. “They’d be in your own handwriting.”

 

 

When he’s done, Furihata lets Akashi read over his notes, slightly crouching in embarrassment of his penmanship and the numerous scratches across the paper. Akashi does agree that his writing is sloppy, but he never lets his eyes stray from the text:

[ You are Furihata Kouki, and you are eleven years old. Mom found a new job at the Akashi manor as a maid, and the cooks are kind enough to give you leftovers from lunch. You like playing hide-and-seek with the butlers, but sometimes you think that you just like irritating people. On the third floor of the house, there’s a hidden staircase to an attic. Climb it. There’s a boy with a really weird hair color and similarly weird irises. He’s saying you have amnesia or something. If you don’t remember writing this, then he’s probably right. Believe him.

His name is Sei. ]

 

 

If there’s anything that Akashi notices, it is this – “I’d rather have you say that my eye color is rare instead of it being ‘weird’. You can rephrase that.”

Furihata’s jaw goes slack in incredulity. He begins to laugh wholeheartedly, and Akashi just gapes at him as if he is some sort of extraterrestrial creature – a lunatic, even – who has all the capacity in the world to be remotely happy, even if it was just for a moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thirty three and a half notebooks later, Furihata is on his stomach on Akashi’s bed, a pencil perched on his right ear and sheets pooled on the floor. It’s in the middle of summer, and he has enough warmth to spare for at least another month before the sky becomes a violent backdrop of oranges and purples. Somehow Furihata is never caught by Akashi's father in all the years he has been visiting Akashi without any memory of him.

“Some of them are talking about you, you know,” Furihata remarks, rolling over so he can lie on his back despite the disarray on the bed. He holds the journal up, reading its contents with a finger tracing his own sentences. “They say that this house is haunted. At different times of the day, someone will play an unpublished arrangement on a piano, but no one knows who it is.”

At that very instant, Akashi pauses in his playing, hands straining on a high chord. “Is that so?”

Furihata sits up and neglects the walls hanging above him; he collides with it, and the crash is almost deafening. There is nothing that Akashi can do but wince and turn his back on the brunet. Hazily, Furihata says, “Ah, you don’t have to stop playing. The attic is the last place they’d think the melody was coming from.”

His feet dangle over the bed, with him having grown too tall to fit in the cot properly. The throbbing in his head does not recede for a while, and in order to make it so that the pain is not there, he talks as the voice of his entry from yesterday. “You are Furihata Kouki, aged seventeen. You tend to the lawn in the Akashi manor to help out your mother, who works as one of the maids. In the attic of the Akashi family’s house is Sei – aged seventeen, with fiery hair that you wouldn’t have thought was existent at all. Come up and talk to him. He’s known you for about six years now, and you might not be able to recall, but you are also familiar with his ways.

“He is an autodidact,” Furihata says, glancing over at Akashi to take note of the latter’s expression, if not a change in one. As always, he doesn’t seem to be affected. “You’re quite fascinated with his insights, and, considering he has never left the attic for almost two decades, you’re surprised he has any remarkable insights at all. You still don’t know why he’s confined in a dusty old attic, but in time, perhaps he will tell you.”

Akashi’s mouth turns sour. “In time,” he mumbles to himself, drowning Furihata’s voice with a rapid fire of grace notes and sharps. His drawstring pants barely reach his ankles, and the velvet chair doesn’t quite accommodate him as well anymore.

Furihata clears his throat as he starts to walk around in circles, unmindful of Akashi’s intention to suppress his narrations, to turn them into meaningless strings of babble. “When you’ve reached this paragraph, you will probably hear him play the piano more aggressively. He doesn’t want to hear things about himself, and sometimes you think that it’s because he doesn’t know much about himself to begin with.”

Akashi halts in the middle of his own composition. There is nothing to be uttered; he only breathes for what he’s worth, exhaling in puffs of humid air. Still, he listens. “And that’s what you’re here for. You have a condition called “anterograde amnesia”, and you will always forget everything up to the last thing you remember. This – this last memory is your secret, one that you can reminisce without having read this. You are good at keeping secrets, especially Sei’s; it’s one of the benefits of beginning anew each day. He’s your best friend, your only friend. Sei is…he’s brilliant. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have been reading this at all.”

Silence momentarily hangs in the room and presses down on Akashi’s shoulders. They’re like clockwork, Furihata and he: once one of them adjourns his actions, the other also does the same. His fingers remain poised yet immobile over the keys, and he realizes that he’s only waiting for what Furihata has to say about this.

“Wow,” Furihata sputters, choosing to settle on his favorite spot on the floor. He may not know that although he only has eleven years’ worth of memories, he relies too much on muscle memory and habit. “Just – wow. I find it difficult to believe that I was the one who wrote all of this. I know for a fact that I’ve been here before – probably sat here, stared across that window – but I don’t remember having done any of the things that I thought – said I did.”

Akashi then chooses to turn and face Furihata. His song is abandoned, ghosting over his knuckles as another composition left to decay in the back of his mind. “How…curious. That’s what you always say.”

Nervously, Furihata laughs, wiping the sweat off of his palm with the hem of his shirt. “Has it always been like this?”

“Not always,” Akashi replies lightly. “On some days you’d be overwhelmed that you end up scurrying down the ladder. Sometimes, you prefer not to read your entries aloud, and I respect that. We have our own things to save for ourselves.”

“I wonder,” Furihata blinks. “It’s strange how I’m calm as of now. Should I be?”

“If I were in your position, I’d say no. Chances are I wouldn’t even trust my own writing – I’d assume that the person who left entries for me to read is somebody else altogether.” It tugs at Furihata’s mouth to make a smile, and Akashi isn’t sure what to say exactly. “So no, you shouldn’t be. Frankly, I don’t know why you are.”

“Guess that makes the two of us,” Furihata tells him, a bit perturbed but chortling at himself all the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a Tuesday, Akashi is politely informed. Furihata leans against the frame of the upright piano as he rests his elbow on the top. He’s oddly languid today, all loose limbs and weariness from willing himself to remember who he was in the days that have passed. As impermanent as the rest of him is, his fingers tap restlessly, tracing patterns that he knows are keys to a song.

“This,” Furihata mutters, gazing at his own hands profoundly. “I know how to play this, but I don’t recall anything about learning this before. Why?”

Akashi taps on his seat for Furihata to come and demonstrate the ability for him. “Procedural memories aren’t affected by your affliction.”

Reluctantly, Furihata sits beside him, his fingers hovering over keys which he hasn’t touched before. He begins to perform a sonata written by Akashi himself, and very soon it becomes evident to the brunet that the song was intended for four hands working seamlessly and side by side. The melody is haunting — melancholic, even — yet it does not stir anything in Furihata except for disbelief. 

The piece is delivered impeccably, although Akashi does not need to look over Furihata's coordination. Furihata heaves, fingers resting on some sharps and flats. "I...I'm tired of having nothing to remember this — to remember you or  _anyone_ by. See, I believe in what you're saying about this condition of mine, but I really don't know if "I" am the person I was before."

Furihata looks to Akashi for answers, and he's certain that Akashi does have some but is willing to share none. "If you really are my friend, Sei, why does it seem that you don't want me to remember? You've helped me with notebooks and an informal diagnosis, but...I don't think you'd wish to do more."

"That's the perplexity I've been attempting to figure out," Akashi says, moving a little to the side to avoid the brushing of their shoulders. "Whatever miracle that you want me to give you, it will never come. I can only help you recall, but I can't ever piece your mind back, especially since I have no idea how it was eviscerated in the first place."

 

_What made you this way?_

 

"Oh," Furihata breathes out, looking down at his heather socks. "So you're asking me about that."

Akashi's focus returns as he wrinkles his nose in curiosity. "That...?"

"That," Furihata nods. He brings his hands to his temples, massaging to soothe the pounding of his head from the influx of memories that he doesn't want to remember. "In every entry that I've had, I've always written to myself about it — I've promised that I will never tell what happened on that day. The...accident. I think some of my past selves just didn't think that it was important enough, but some of them probably didn't want your pity."

"Tell me about it," Akashi murmurs, all without looking Furihata in the eye. "I am not the kind of person who feels sorry for anybody."

Furihata's eyes crinkle. "Are you really?"

"Yes."  _I convince myself that I am._

"Thief," is Furihata's concise answer, the sound out of his lips in a split second. When he senses that Akashi does not understand, he augments, "We had nothing to eat, and I happened to pass by the marketplace on the way home. Thought I was too quick for anyone to notice, and too little to stand out in a crowd. There were oranges, bright ones. Then they had me — two men, one with some cash in his pocket — and I was on the ground. Hands on my neck."

Furihata reaches to the base of his neck, lightly sweeping his fingers over imperceptible marks. "I couldn't breathe. I told him to stop, I couldn't even say it properly, and I knew he did, only I wasn't awake to see it."

"Oxygen deprivation," Akashi says, unblinking. 

Furihata turns to him and smiles, his expression bound to break any moment now. "Imagine waking up and remembering that as your most recent memory."

"Lifetimes would pass," Akashi replies solemnly, "and that is one thing I cannot do."

"You tell me and I take note, every day, that I am lucky to be like this." There is nothing furious about Furihata's tone — in fact, it is only the manifestation of the jumbled doubt and sympathy that exists. His fists tremble at his sides, and he presses his knuckles against what little space he and Akashi have between them. "That I must be so free of any pain, that I must be so at ease for living my life like a different person after another twenty four hours."

Akashi swallows, keeping his gaze fixed on the browning piano keys. He hears a sigh and mistakes it for a choke. "I tell you, Sei, that you are brilliant, but there is so little that you understand. It's not easy. This is pain itself."

If there is anything that Akashi can't escape, it is all humans' capacity for error. He chooses wrongly to look at Furihata at that instant, seeing glassy eyes in place of bright, brown ones. Red leaves scrape against the window, unable to stay afloat for too long. "I understand pain. You are currently sitting in it."

"You've never told me why you never left the attic," Furihata says, staring and staring and staring, although his shoulders are shaking. "I've also written to myself that you've never told me your real name. Do I always ask?"

After the reign of momentary silence, Akashi admits, "Yes."

"And you've never answered, not even once," Furihata guesses.

Akashi closes his eyes in resignation. Nevertheless, Furihata continues, unmindful of his own raspy voice. "We're both hurting, aren't we? And we're friends. I want us to truly help each other. Whatever you're going through right now, I'm not sure I'll understand how it feels. But maybe you can overcome it, and if it doesn't work, I'll help you forget. Then you can help me remember things I'm supposed to."

There is no acquiescence, nor is there dissent.

Furihata turns away, rises from his seat, and silently pads across the room. He climbs down, exhaling heavily, and it is dark when Akashi is left to burn holes on the keys in front of him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sonata must have been played for twenty times already, and with each passing day Furihata performs so swiftly that he becomes horrified once it ends. Akashi, as always, does nothing to console him, and the atmosphere is thick when winter comes again. Today, Furihata has a scarf, and he asks questions, too many of them: "Why is my mother so old?", "Why are you locked up?", "Why do I know this, but not my own age?"

And, perhaps most importantly: "I've read countless entries, and each of them say that you told me at the beginning to use journals to document my life and help me get by. I don't understand. You advised for me to write about myself, or, more aptly, the versions of myself. But why do I keep writing about you?"

This is the first time that such a query was ever brought up, and even Akashi has to take a few seconds to come up with an answer. He's outraged at the fact that he doesn't have any, these days. "I'm sorry, but that is something that only you can know."

"You, Sei —" Furihata buries his face in his hands, tresses disheveled and eyes too tired to open. But they do, eventually. "There's something about you. How I describe situations varies from time to time, but the way I wrote about you never did."

Akashi averts his gaze and says softly, "You call me your friend."

"It's not that." Furihata's sudden response jolts Akashi, and the latter winds the blankets around him even tighter. The wall's bland colors do not change, try as he might to imagine them as something else. "I...I know that it's different, reasons be damned. I am just tired, so tired — and I want to see if this works."

The covers shuffle as Furihata settles beside Akashi, back pressed to back with one tense in its place. Akashi's breaths are shallow and ragged whereas Furihata's are even. "I want to remember you. And I do, but at the same time I don't. You mentioned muscle memory long ago; I found it written on the margins."

 _Ah,_ Akashi thinks.  _Mistake number one._

Before Akashi can determine when exactly he has ceased from being infallible, Furihata sits up and places a hand on the pillow, right next to Akashi's cheek. He uses the other to draw Akashi's arm from under the sheets, and when Akashi doesn't squirm from the grasp on his wrist, Furihata cautiously presses his lips to each of his calloused fingertips.

The effect is instantaneous; Akashi struggles to keep his expression at bay. His eyes make contact with Furihata's innocent orbs of warm hazel, and the apprehension is dissipated all too quickly when Furihata leans in, his eyes closed, and kisses Akashi as if he has done so in days before this. Akashi follows almost out of his own volition, closing his eyes to the weight on him and letting his fingers graze the back of Furihata's neck.

 

Furihata pulls away and rests his forehead on Akashi's, soft breaths lingering and tickling Akashi's chin. "I think I had always been in love with you, ever since I first found you here. Fascinated, captivated, so utterly consumed by how you were lonely yet beautiful. God, I think I still am."

 

 

(Akashi's sole reply, subdued and strained:)

 

 

("Please, promise me you won't write about this.")

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"So you've always been my friend?" Furihata asks unwittingly just before he takes a bite of a chocolate chip cookie. Crumbs fall to the floor quietly. Akashi makes the mistake — he's lost count of all the times he's done so — of training his eyes on Furihata, carefree and looking as if his most burdensome plight involves the smear of melted chocolate across the side of his mouth.

He hears something break when he realizes that Furihata has no recollection of what transpired yesterday. Instead of asking himself what it was that prompted him to blink back the wetness on his eyes, he murmurs, "Not always. Sometimes, you'd say that I'm not."

"Ah," Furihata mutters back, eyes flickering from his marred fingertips. "If you say so."

 

 

 

(Furihata blinks at him. Swallows.)

 

 

("...Alright. I promise.")

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are days when Furihata does not visit the attic. Those are the times when Akashi lies on his bed, mouth slightly open at the low, slanted walls. He keeps track of the hours by hand, and seldom he stops at 1362 seconds and closes his eyes to the sound of voices beneath him. There are also days when he panics, hugging his knees in cold baths with faint sunlight streaming through his window. He reads his books forwards and backwards, and everything becomes a blur of hopelessness to the point that he realizes that he's terrified of being alone.

His father still comes, however, to place a warm plate on the floor. Akashi would like to ask if he can stay, but perhaps it is too much, even for someone who is mad, in every sense of the word.

Furihata returns ultimately, carrying a frayed journal and a trove of questions that's always filled to the brim. "You are Sei."

"Yes."

"That's not your real name."

"Yes."

"You're my friend."

"Often."

"You've told me about my condition."

"Yes."

"My declarative memory doesn't exist after the accident. But my procedural one does."

"Yes."

"You taught me a song. On the piano."

"Yes."

"My hands remember. They do, without exception — don't they?"

"...Perhaps."

"And if I do this?" Furihata wonders aloud, taking one of Akashi's hands into his own and clasping it. He tries to find the perfect pressure until he settles for intertwining their fingers. The rough maps on Akashi's palm are neglected as Furihata's thumb swipes over a knuckle and strokes small circles there. "Will I remember this when tomorrow comes?"

"I can't," Akashi chokes out, "I can't tell you. I don't know."

"Muscle memory," Furihata hums, still lacking a trace of full recognition for Akashi's face. "There is a chance that I'll forget this, among other things."

"Yes."

A whiff of strange air later and Akashi does not believe that Furihata is pressed up against him now, fingers aching and bruising as the brunet strives to imprint his lips on Akashi's. There's fumbling and heaving, and Furihata says, barely a whisper, "I'll forget this. Tell me."

This type of bravery is the only cowardice that Akashi knows. "No," he shakes his head, breathing in Furihata's everything so he can be the one to keep the memories for the both of them. "No. Don't. Don't you dare forget this."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Akashi tries to strike a chord, to recreate something that might induce a spark. Something, anything.

He touches Furihata's hand ever so briefly, and the brunet only scrunches his eyebrows in confusion and takes his leave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Why are you in this attic?" Furihata asks, and Akashi wants to laugh because this is the very essence of deja vu: the mind is too slow on the uptake that it fabricates a past that's not there. At least, that's the case for Furihata; Akashi remembers the question as clear as day. Sometimes he jests himself with imitating Furihata, as he knows even the least distinct intonations and pronunciations that he makes.

"I suppose, since you're good at keeping secrets," Akashi declares, having already given up, "I'll tell you. That is, if you won't write it down."

Furihata nods in understanding. "O...kay. So why?"

Akashi holds his breath in, and gradually — very gradually — he allows his shoulders to drop. "My name is Akashi Seijuuro, and my mother perished in a fire when I was five years old. The man who took me in is my biological father, and he hides me here because I don't belong to his family. The act of leaving this place is unthinkable. I am a secret who can't ever be known by others."

"Why not escape?" Furihata offers, tilting his head in thought. "Ah, I see. You're still hoping for acknowledgement of your existence."

Never has Akashi comprehended how it is that Furihata can know so much with one glance. "...I am."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Furihata's reciting his entry, his breaths the running phantoms on Akashi's nose. They lie in bed at six in the evening, hearing crickets whir at the sign of dusk. "You are Furihata Kouki, and it is your birthday today. You're eighteen; you might remember that you're still eleven years old, and that you were being strangled the last time you were awake. You are — were the one writing this, and you wonder how you even emerged alive back then. Now, Mom is still a maid at the Akashi manor, but she will be retiring soon. She doesn't tell you that, but you know that it will only be a short time before she becomes incapable of providing you sustenance.

"This might seem bizarre to you, having gone to sleep and woken up as someone who's devoid of seven years' worth of yesterdays. But believe in me — in yourself. Anterograde means being directed forward in time. But this is not time-travelling. This is the present. You won't remember, and you probably never will, but this is your life — some people will remember it for you."

Akashi huddles closer until their lips almost touch. Furihata does not waver. "There's Sei. He's told you his real name before, but you promised him that you won't write it down. He's your best friend, your self-appointed therapist, your companion who tells the truth more than half of the time. That's okay; it's better than what the others can offer you. He lives in an attic, and he has stark hair and eyes the color of blood. He says he's a secret that nobody ought to discover, and you're someone who keeps secrets well. Ask him tomorrow if you can keep him."

At that, Akashi smiles tenderly — it's the first time he's done so in years. "Happy birthday, Kouki."

Furihata does not show any sign of hesitation; it's a good sign. He places his palm on Akashi's cheek, voice breaking as he speaks. "We...we're lovers. I am so, so sorry that I can't remember you, Sei. I wish I could. I really do. I can't fathom how much hurt I've caused you."

"It's okay," says Akashi, and every fiber of him truly means it. Allowing Furihata's head to rest on his shoulder blade, he shushes the brunet, rocking them back and forth, until the hiccups disappear. "It's okay."

He tilts Furihata's chin up with a finger and decides that he doesn't like the sight of Furihata crying. So he closes his eyes and leans in.

It feels like coming home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Furihata comes later in the nights, Akashi busies himself with his compositions, hitting high pitches to screen out the lone cacophony of his breaths and heartbeats. He's had the privilege of not having any timepieces in the attic to count his days by, but whenever he looks at the folded attic ladder he chastises himself for doing it for too many times even when the day is still young.

Furihata comes, eventually. He wears tire and determination on his sleeves, and maybe his heart, too. Akashi silently questions him about the two packages in his arms.

"You're Sei," Furihata clears his throat, hazel irises inching towards iridescence in spite of the grime that paints Furihata's face black. He must have been working out in the fields. "Apparently I don't remember the last seven years of my life, and you happen to be a part of the huge chunk I've missed."

By now, Akashi has grown fond of resorting to a mere nod. Furihata swallows and sets down the packages on Akashi's bed. "Yesterday, I wrote to myself that I have some money saved up, and I ought to spend it on these things which would make you happy — because, uh, I'm supposedly madly in love with you. Of course I don't remember how that transpired, but looking at you...well, I wouldn't say that I can deny that fact."

Akashi chuckles softly, accompanying Furihata on his cot. "Let's see them, then."

They tear off the parcel wrapping paper in silence, discarding the jagged pieces on the floor. First, Furihata holds up a sketchpad and a set of colored pencils and covers his face with them in an attempt to disguise the redness on his cheeks. "I thought that it might help me remember better. I was going to opt for a camera — just a cheap one — but I couldn't afford even that."

"It's more than enough," Akashi says, flipping open the blank sketchbook. "Have you ever had any experience in drawing?"

"Just a little," Furihata admits.

The second package is heavier this time, with squared edges and protrusions on its surface. Akashi unwraps and stares at it for what seems like hours on Furihata's end. "What's this?"

"Ah," utters Furihata, pressing the red button on the device. "It's a used recorder, and I was lucky to remember to bargain for a more realistic price. I could record your voice on this, your songs...that way, I'm with you no matter where we are or what time of the day it is. Go on, talk."

Akashi opens his mouth in awe and whispers against the recorder. When Furihata pushes on a different button, only static marks the beginning of the playback, until there's finally Furihata's voice, explaining the mechanics of this device, and Akashi's murmurs, tinged with reluctance, of Furihata's name. 

"What's...with all of this, all of a sudden?" There is nothing accusatory about Akashi's tone, but if there's anything he's developed over the past few months, it's keen observation on the only person who's comprised his life in all aspects. In fact, he half-expects Furihata to shrug, perhaps laugh, at the lack of proper justification of his purchases.

What only greets him is a smile with weary eyes. Even the part of Akashi that didn't expect anything is disappointed. "This morning, I finally told my mother that I was taking account of the things she wasn't disclosing to me. I've never seen Mom cry — at least, I don't remember ever seeing her like that. Then I decided that I've burdened her for too long, and it was time for me to support her. I promised myself that she wouldn't need to have back-breaking jobs."

Despite the whirlwind of it all, Akashi understands. He wishes that he doesn't. "You're leaving."

Furihata leans against the wall, closing his eyes in escape. "...Yes. I've considered asking you to come with me, but I already know what your answer is, Sei."

"How can you be so sure?" There, there — a flare of anger that doesn't pass Furihata's notice. "For you, perhaps I would."

Biting his lip, Furihata reaches out for Akashi's wrist, tracing patterns across his knuckles with his fingertips. "See, you and I are the backs of each other's hand. I know you as well as you do me. Even if all I have is today, I know you. It's not that I don't care enough to think that you'd rather stay here — I want to remember you, memorize the plane of you until I ache."

"You've wronged me so many times," Akashi says quietly, letting Furihata touch his hands. "You've made me feel. Now you're taking all I have away."

Furihata shakes his head, voice catching in his throat. "No. I'll be the one left with nothing if I don't have journals and pictures and recordings of you, Sei. I don't want to leave you, because saying goodbye means forgetting, and I don't want everything about us to be lost in time, to seem as if there was never an 'everything' at all."

The universe is a terrible place, Akashi muses. In a trice he's all alone in the dusty attic, staring at his five-year old self in the bath. He — the younger one — cradles his head, droplets of water cascading as his blackened fingers sift through his incarnadine hair. About this time, young, tender Akashi is telling himself that he won't allow himself the capacity of being left again. The Akashi of now stares, offers a blink in place of a cry; this is when he'll have to apologize to the child in him for having broken his own promises.

He also speaks in the present, hands catching onto what little warmth is left. "Then draw and record me," Akashi says. "Memories will last longer that way, won't they?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soon enough the red pencil is broken from everyday use. Furihata leaves it at the moment, setting the recorder on the top of the piano. A song begins, one that has been conceived lately, and he pulls Akashi up from his seat and rests his hands on the latter's shoulders. Instinctively, Akashi winds his arms around Furihata's lower back as the brunet buries his face in the crook of his neck. 

"It's funny," Furihata mutters against Akashi's collarbone with his small laughter, "how we don't have any idea what we're doing and call it a dance."

Akashi steps to the side with Furihata following in suit. "That doesn't matter." He breathes in Furihata's scent, pressing his lips firmly against the brunet's ruffled mane. 

Neither of them knows who tilts his head and touches his lips to the other's first, but it's not long until the air has a tang of sweat and desperation, until the song fades into the background as nothing more important than the shuffling of wrinkled clothes. The back of Furihata's leg hits the bed, and the brunet doesn't mind it one bit as he breathes in, breathes out, studying Akashi's cheeks, the curve of his neck, and the brightness of his eyes. Furihata reaches out to him, cupping the back of his neck, and says, "I can't believe how I can forget you, when you're the type of person who doesn't go until you leave a lasting impression."

Akashi presses a kiss to the side of Furihata's mouth, then behind his ear. "But I won't be the one to go."

"No, you won't," Furihata sighs, fingers traipsing until they find Akashi's spine. He swipes his thumb over the skin that embraces him. "You can still change your mind, Sei."

The boy in question does not answer with words, only with feather-like touches.

 

 

 

Furihata's buttoning his crinkled shirt when Akashi props himself on his elbow and says, "I want this to be your last memory of me."

There's a sharp intake of breath at that.  _Don't come back._

"Mail me your journals, Kouki," Akashi adds nonchalantly. He turns on his side, facing the wall on which the tally marks are disappearing, and in truth he doesn't want to see nor hear the door to the attic being opened and shut close. He's had to witness it for so many times, and while he may be inclined to think that he's used to it, he'd beg, even hoarsely, to differ.

Furihata places a hand on Akashi's waist as if to console the redhead, but it does nothing of the sort. "Sei. I still have one more day, and we can spend it together. What do you need the journals for?"

The floor murmurs under the weight of Furihata's feet. Akashi looks at him, peruses him, even; then he smiles. "Frankly, I'd rather you remember me this way. And as for the journals...I want to read your entries. Who knows what you've been writing about me."

At that, Furihata turns beet-red, and he points to his inflamed cheeks and blurts, "In my defense, I don't remember writing them, but I'm not sure why that would merit this reaction."

Akashi laughs, sitting up and reaching out to straighten Furihata's collar. He presses his lips against the brunet's forehead, lingering there for what seems like an infinity enclosed in a second. "Go on, now," he murmurs.

"Promise me we'll see each other again," Furihata implores, grasping Akashi's wrists too tightly.

Akashi's mouth twists. 

After a while:

"I promise."

 

He realizes he's wrong again — lying still isn't close to being as easy as breathing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He receives thirty five journals, a sketchpad, and a recorder two days later. Furihata's penmanship is heavy on the parchment that he included in the package, crossed out phrases and sentences all a reflection of his uncertainties. 

_Yesterday I scribbled your name over and over. Perhaps I hoped to remember you._

_Today I woke up. I forgot._

_But I'll try to write and write and write again. One day, this'll work._

 

Akashi continues to read.  _Love letters,_ he thinks —  _this is not an autobiography._

 

_Furihata Kouki:_

 

_This is you, writing a day ago. It's funny to think that we're almost different people. You have anterograde amnesia, which means that everything you do today will be forgotten once tomorrow comes. What's even more comical is that you can't wallow about this condition, because when you wake up in the morning you won't even remember that you had it at all._

_You're eighteen now. Seven years away from the last time you formed a proper memory. Come to think of it, it's like sitting in a sea of strangers; people are ephemeral beings, and you've seen a lot of them passing by but you won't be able to recall anyone because there's too many. The mind is a beautiful thing when it isn't broken, isn't it? Years and years of experiences stored away in that little compartment in your head, constituting only 2% of your mass._

_The question is, why do you know this? Why do you know that your brain is a tiny, fragile part of you that does wonders when it's working right?_

_First, you have to know that your mother is a maid in the Akashi manor. It's high time for you to provide for her; she's done so much, endured every day of you asking her about her gray hairs. One thing you can't forget is that you've always wanted to enter the profession of teaching. There's so much to know about this world, but you — we — have decided that being a piano instructor would be the best. After all, only your procedural memories are not affected by your amnesia._

_Someone told you that. At the beginning of the day, you won't remember anything about him, but he is what your life revolves around. Without him, you wouldn't have been reading this._

_His name is Sei. You keep his secrets because they disappear from your knowledge as soon as you go to sleep. But sometimes he helps you remember._

_He's your best friend, and the reason why you know how to play the piano despite not having remembered how you learned in the first place. In the attic of the Akashi family's house, he's there, composing songs and staring at the ceiling. You've always wanted to know why he's never come down. But he has told you before. You just don't remember._

_He reads books in his spare time (which is always). You've always noticed that he seems to be bound to something, that he holds himself back because he is afraid that he might make mistakes._

_Today, visit the attic. Before you climb up the staircase, look thoroughly at your drawing of him in the sketchpad. Listen to his voice on the recorder._

_You may feel stupefied, angry that you don't remember any of this._

_But here's what you should know:_

_you love him. Possibly far more than you do yourself, although you just don't know it at the moment. You've kissed him long ago, and he told you not to write about what transpired because it is not important for as long as you forget about it. Yet you did. You were desperate to hold on to memories of him, and if that isn't love, then what is?_

_When your eyes fall upon him there's a chance that you'll get to feel it again — that intangible itch, that yearning to reach out to him. Don't worry; he understands._

_But understanding does not mean that you've never hurt him. Tell him you're sorry for meeting him. For being like this when you loved him. It's a self-deprecating thought that you have once in a while; you think you're a burden, and truthfully, perhaps you are. That's why Sei is one of the most important people to you. He never lets you feel that way._

_Today he will teach you to love him again._

_When he does, you'll know why I don't have to tell you to let him._

 

_PS. You need to buy a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk today. Apparently, you forgot yesterday, and Mom will be too tired to do the errands by the time she gets home._

 

 

 

 

Nighttime falls and Akashi finishes poring over all 2800 pages of Furihata's messy handwriting. His throat constricts, and it's happenstance when his father comes up with a pitcher of water and some cinnamon bread. Akashi rips out all of the pages with his name on them and all of the caricatures of his face.

It's the first and last time that Akashi gets to ask anything of his father, and he doesn't plead for him to let him down. To let him walk away.

His father's expression is weary as he receives the stack of creased sheets of paper.

"Please burn these pages," Akashi says earnestly. "And please mail these to Furihata Kouki. I believe you have the resources to find him." He presses the button that says "Delete" on the recorder.

His father stares at the objects — a thin sketchpad, thirty five journals, and a recorder — in his hands and nods, unsure. "Alright."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Akashi draws another tally mark on his wall. His pillowcase is too wet for his own liking, so he retrieves a new one from the cabinet.

In the end, he has to replace it again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On his nineteenth birthday, Akashi cuts his hair. Red strands fall on his lap as he gapes at the mirror. 

It's the first time that somebody knocks on the door that leads to the attic. He raises his eyebrow in suspicion and says, "Come in."

His father is there, with wrinkles on his forehead and a cough that's too raspy not to be deemed as chronic. Akashi doesn't say anything; he only goes back to his reflection, snipping away uneven regions of his mane. He hears the wooden floor creak beneath him, and soft fabric brushes against his shoulder as his father takes his place beside him.

Akashi fails to hide the hitch in his breath. "What are you doing here, Father?"

They're both sitting in the silence of winter, the view beyond the window a whiteout. A pair of scissors is put down as Akashi says, insistent, "Father."

Akashi's clothes have threads sticking out of them, with his sweater barely covering his waist. On the other hand, his father has a crisp suit on, cologned and all. The stark contrast does not faze Akashi; all it does is make him even more furious.

"I'm sorry, Seijuuro," his father murmurs, unable to look him in the eye. "All these years, wasted..."

In an instant, Akashi's eyes narrow with disgust. The desire to be called son by this man dissipates, and Akashi asks himself why he ever had it in the first place. "There is nothing you can do for me to forgive you."

"I know that," the man sighs, running his fingers through his hair. He coughs again, and again, and again. Everything — from the trickle of snowflakes to the hollowness in his father's throat — sounds painful to Akashi. "And that doesn't matter. I have no idea myself why I kept you instead of letting you go."

"Mother deserved someone better," Akashi says ruefully.

"Both of you did," his father remarks, breathing in deeply. "And I will apologize until the end of time, regardless of your acceptance. But now, I am old, and soon enough you will be the only one left in this manor. Would you want to take charge?"

Akashi blinks. He reels back in distaste. "Of course not. I want nothing to do with anything that's remotely related to your family again."

 

His father looks at him — truly looks at him — and in that moment Akashi concedes that the least he has asked for was this man's fulfilled responsibility to him, if not a whole family. Akashi muses about the days on which he'd imagine that his father wanted him to be here, that he was going through great lengths to keep him by his side. On other days he'd consider the possibility that his father was waiting for the right time to bring him down from the attic.

But then all prospects point back to the same reason: his father is nothing but a coward.

 

"Very well then." The man clears his throat and dusts invisible traces of dust from his slacks when he rises from the floor. He holds his hand out, trembling as he does so, and says, "Seijuuro — go on and see the world. I will have your clothes packed, and I'll provide you some money for you to be able to find your way."

Akashi ignores his father's offer, choosing to stand up on his own. If anything, his father does not seem shocked; it is just that he was being too optimistic after all he's done.

Akashi brushes past him and heads straight to the corner of the attic to retrieve a worn-out suitcase that he found from not too long ago.

This time, when his father leaves, the door remains ajar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a sense of fear when Akashi puts on his shoes for the first time after numerous years of being confined to the attic. The world would have changed when he sees it again, and he would seem a stranger to this land in spite of having lived here for all of his life. He would not know customs, fads, paths to take, people to talk to.

Perhaps even stronger, however, is the anticipation to taste freedom again — to breathe in polluted air, to walk amongst ephemeral people, to find himself once more in the outside realm that has lost him. He looks forward to the seasons, the sea, the clouds — to anywhere but here.

Before he leaves the manor, he finds a package addressed to him on the console table. It's a bit thin yet relatively heavy.

He uses a Swiss knife to open the envelope and reads a message hastily written on a piece of crumpled paper.

 

_Seijuuro,_

 

(Ah, he thinks. It's from his father.)

 

_I didn't burn the pages that you've asked me to. It seems as if I will never get to fulfill your wishes._

 

_I know about the boy; wide-eyed, destitute, stubborn. Someday, I hope that you will find him again, for he has given you more than anyone else, including myself, could._

 

_Please remain safe and healthy._

 

_And, again, I am sorry for everything._

 

 

Akashi holds the package to his chest, inhaling sharply.

He steps out of the house, onto marble stairs and a garden of greens and yellow, and into the place where the sunshine spills in excess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Akashi is twenty two, and this is the last time that he will ever have to visit the manor.

 

His father was reported to have died from a stroke on a sunny Thursday, when he was out walking with his eldest son. Rumors have flown and made their way to each of the houses in the city; people talk among themselves, speculating about another cause of death. Perhaps his son has murdered him to get a hold of all of his possessions, and quickly. The police, however, do not seem to be too interested in investigating further.

It's effortless to appear as a visitor of the funeral, with the crowd of black and white swarmed in the vast expanse of land that Akashi's father previously used as a golf course. There's endless chatter, mostly borne out of false sympathy — even Akashi could tell that much. After all, it's similar to what he listens to in the hospital wards where he observes. In a few years' time, he will have to be that way, too.

Akashi stares at the pallid face beneath the thick glass before he bows and exits. His footsteps are light, unbound by the knowledge that the man he has resented for so long has finally gone. He doesn't have to say goodbye.

 

Someone collides against him, and he frowns. Papers scatter over his feet, and as much as he would like to go unnoticed, he bends down and helps the man pick up the sheets of papyrus.

He looks up, and he's arrested of his breath.

Furihata scratches the back of his neck apologetically, but his expression changes when he looks into Akashi's eyes. "Oh. Have we...met before, by any chance?"

Akashi does not form the words immediately. Eventually, though, he murmurs and hands Furihata the papers. "I'm sorry. You must have mistaken me for someone else."

"Ah, is that so?" Furihata laughs, his voice slightly deeper than it was before. Akashi forces a cry down his throat, suppresses the million questions waiting to be stammered — among them, there is:  _how have you been? Have you been well? Is your mother alright? Did you finally become a piano instructor? What are you here for?_

 

_Do you remember me?_

 

 

Furihata's voice stirs him back to the present. "I'm really sorry for having troubled you."

"...It's fine," Akashi replies tersely, waving him off. He turns his back on him, repeating to himself:  _You have lived without him before. You will have to do it again._

 

The brunet blinks at the lack of farewell and shrugs casually. He continues to stride the other way, towards the horde of mourners and tattletales alike. Akashi does not look back, not even once. His breaths become shallower by the second.

 

 

He hears running. Listens to heavy footsteps on gravel, on grass, towards him. Then he's whirled around, hands on his shoulders, and there's that once destitute, still wide-eyed and stubborn brunet that he has finally crossed paths with after what feels like an eternity. His suit is wrinkled under Furihata's grasp, and he doesn't mind, not when Furihata is panting and staring earnestly at him, as if he has memories of the past eleven years.

Furihata retracts a hand and fishes a square piece of paper from his breast pocket. He reads aloud, raggedly. "You will receive a package of thirty five journals, one sketchpad, and a recorder with nothing but the sounds of static. All of these objects contain your memories, and you have been remembering the past few years with entries, caricatures, and music. But when you open the package, the journals would probably have pages torn out of them, as will the sketchpad. The recorder would be empty."

"Someone tried to erase himself from your life, and you know this because you and he can read the other like the back of one's hand. He is trying to spare you the trouble of holding on to what you have written and drawn of him. But write this: his name is Sei, and someday you will know his real name. You are in love with him. Now, draw this: red, fiery hair with two mismatched eyes: one the color of flames and the other a brilliant gold. He's quite pale, and he doesn't smile often, only when it matters. He has shoulders that are not as broad, yet he stands proud. His fingers are nimble, long. They fit yours."

Akashi sucks in a harsh breath, while Furihata shakes his head in disbelief, shoulders trembling. "These are the only things you have of him. But it will be more than enough to tell you that this is one person that you mustn't forget. Someday, you will find him again. When you do, don't lose him once more."

"Believe in what I wrote to you," Furihata finishes, and Akashi notices the plead and the uncertainty lacing his tone. "Because I am the person you were yesterday."

A shuffle of paper being creased and tucked into his pocket later, Furihata breathlessly says, "Sei?"

As incredulous as he is, Akashi opens his mouth, only to say nothing in return.

Of course. In this life, only Furihata could have thought of something as clever as this. 

 

 

"Kouki," Akashi finally manages, vision blurring as Furihata's arms envelop him with familiarity and longing. He laughs, and it doesn't quite sound like his chest is shattering, not anymore. 

 


End file.
